The Adventure of Mr White and Mr Black
by Argonaut57
Summary: Mr White is a laconic and dangerous protector of the weak. Mr Black is a ruthless vigilante, a cold killer of those the law cannot touch. One man, or two? Who is he? Who are they? What is their agenda? That is the enigma Sherlock Holmes must unravel if he is to prevent Victorian London from falling into a spiral of lawlessness and brutal gang war.
1. Chapter 1

**The Adventure of Mr White and Mr Black**

**Part One**

Harriet had been beaten before and would be again, she knew. But she'd never grovel and scrape the way the other girls did. She knew what she did for a living, knew how her parents would feel if they knew, but she hadn't lost all her pride, not completely.

"Yer don't 'ave to take it all!" She yelled. "I need some for meself!"

The big man backhanded her across the face.

"'Old yer tongue, girl!" He growled. "What do yer need 'cept thruppence fer lodgin' an' tuppence fer gin? The rest belongs to me fer lookin' after yer!"

"Lookin after me?" She spat.

"Bloody right!" He pushed his jowly, unshaven face close to hers -she could smell the gin on his breath. "You pay me, an' I makes sure that pretty face o' yours don't get cut!"

He shoved her to the ground and stood over her. A knife glittered in the gaslight.

"I get any more of your gob, girl, an' I'll cut yer an extra one! See 'ow much yer can earn then!"

"Leave her!" A new voice. Flat, monotone, hollow. Like a corpse speaking.

The pimp spun round to face the speaker -middle height, gaunt, wearing a dark ulster and a slouch hat.

"You mind yer own business, mate, or it'll be the worse for yer!" He snarled.

"My business." The newcomer said. He stepped forward into the lamplight and Harriet gasped. For a moment, she thought the man had no face. Then she saw it was a white mask, with black blotches on it that shifted and changed shape as he spoke.. "If not mine, who else? Leave her."

Harriet winced as the pimp roared and went for the masked man. The pimp was a big man -run to fat but still strong, and twice the size of his opponent, and he had a knife. There was a whirl of motion; the knife flew away and clattered on the pavement; there was a sickening, crunching snap and the pimp went down. Harriet knew he was dead – nobody could live with their head at that angle. She pulled herself to her feet, feeling at the side of her face -she'd have a proper shiner there tomorrow.

The masked man – not even a little out of breath -studied her.

"Why?" He asked.

"Why what?" She countered.

"Why this life?" He asked. "Plenty of other work here."

"Other work!" She sneered. "What? Sew until me fingers bleed and be scolded by bitches with soft 'ands and 'ard faces? Go into a factory and get cut up by some bloody machine, or end up coughin' me lungs out from the dust or gettin' me face eaten off with phossie jaw? Go into service where some _gentleman_ can shag me for free while 'is missus 'as tea in the parlour?

"At least on the street I get paid for openin' me legs!"

"Different answer." The man said. "No self-pity. Not a good answer. No good answers here.

"Come with me!"

"Where?" She wanted to know.

"Somewhere safe." He told her.

Harriet shrugged and followed him. As long as he paid, what did she care? His ulster looked good quality, perhaps he could afford more than most. She also had a passing curiosity as to what might be behind the mask.

He led her though dark, twisting, empty ways until they came to an area where the buildings were different. Not ramshackle lodging houses interspersed with gin palaces and poky shops squeezed between factories and warehouses. These were solid houses. Not big, not fancy, and some of them had shops on the ground floor. The homes, Harriet guessed, of people lucky, determined or sober enough to get themselves permanent work.

They went down a side-alley into a passage that ran behind the houses, then stopped in front of a sturdy gate set into the brick wall. There was a man standing beside the gate, wearing rough clothes and apparently loafing, but he had become alert as they approached and now he studied them. Apparently satisfied, he touched his cap respectfully.

"Evenin' Mr White. Evenin' Miss." He said.

White nodded and led Harriet through the gate, across a small, neat garden to the kitchen door, where he rapped sharply. It was opened at once by a trim-looking housemaid, who looked them up and down, then smiled.

"Good evening Mr White. Will you and the lady step inside?"

The kitchen was warm and full of the smells of cooking. The maid carried on. "I'll go and fetch Madame at once. Are you hungry or thirsty, Miss?"

Harriet allowed that she was, and the maid grinned at her. "I thought so! Sit yourself down at the table. Liza! Get the lady a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter. You won't be taking anything, Mr White? Of course. Excuse me."

Harriet had thought she might be being taken to some kind of mission, but now as she sat at the well-scrubbed deal table, she realised she'd been wrong. The easy and cheerful way in which the rosy-cheeked young kitchen-maid came over and plonked a mug of tea and a plate down in front of her gave the lie to that supposition. This place was warm and cheerful, far from the austerity and gravity of the missions. Harriet tasted the tea; strong, hot and sweet -the tea of working people. The thick slice of bread on the plate was generously spread with butter that was already beginning to melt.

"Fresh out of the oven, Miss!" The kitchen-maid told her, then bobbed a curtsey and went back to her work, bantering back and forth with the matronly cook.

Harriets' rescuer, Mr White, stood in the corner near the door. He had not removed his hat, his hands were in the pockets of his ulster and his head was down. He radiated discomfort and impatience.

A few minutes later, the housemaid returned with someone who was clearly the mistress of the house. A tall woman in a simple but elegant green gown, flame-red hair in a stylish coiffure, a sensual oval face, pale skin and piercing green eyes that were at once stern and kind.

"Mr White," the voice was low-pitched and slightly husky, "I see you've brought us another foundling? Should we expect any… _difficulty_?"

"No." White replied.

"I thought not." Madame replied. "I don't suppose I could tempt you to stay a while? Some of our ladies have expressed a wish to meet you."

"Things to do." White said, then nodded once and left.

"He has few manners and less small-talk," Madame opined, "but a good heart makes up for so much. I suspect his mother might have been in the trade. It would explain a good deal.

"Now, my dear, let me look at you. My, you are pretty, but so thin! What's your name?"

"Harriet, m'm." Harriet was feeling more than a little abashed – this woman had so much _presence_.

"Call me Madame." She was told. "In the French manner. It impresses the guests, though I'm no more French than I am a Hottentot!

"Now finish your supper, dear, then Margaret will take you upstairs. A nice hot bath, a clean nightgown and a good nights' sleep for a start. We will talk tomorrow, you and I."

"What will I have to do, Madame?" Harriet asked.

"You don't _have _to do anything, my dear." Madame replied. "We will talk about what you _want_ to do. There is no place in the trade for those who don't enjoy the work."

Major Beaumont left the club late, as he always did, his lodgings were only a short walk away and despite the amount of drink he had consumed, his head was as clear as ever. Tonight had been profitable, in its' way. As usual, his young quarry had won enough at first to keep him interested, then lost enough to make him anxious to win it back. In the end, Beaumont had called a halt, as was his custom, but by then the boy owed enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to be disastrous.

Unlike some of his breed, Beaumont took care never to ruin his victims – he had wider aims. He was not, after all, a professional gambler, though he possessed many of the necessary skills. The Major was in fact a blackmailer of sorts. Selecting the sons of men who had made their fortunes in trade, and bought their way into Society by marrying the daughters of impecunious noblemen, he made sure he took just enough to give him ascendancy over his debtor. Such men usually worked in their fathers' businesses, in a position that gave them access to certain information. A promise to remit or reduce the debt in return for the answers to a few questions was usually enough. The sale of this information to rival companies brought much larger rewards than gambling ever could.

Beaumont had learned the hard way that attempts to blackmail aristocrats in this way were doomed to failure. Debts of honour were always paid, one way or the other, and any attempt to exert leverage tended to be met with a thrashing at the hands of several hefty footmen. The sons of the _parvenu_, however, regarded debt as more shameful, while their hard-headed and often pious fathers were unlikely to bail them out.

He was actually inside the apartment when he realised something wasn't right. The door to his study was open, and a soft light showed that the desk-lamp was lit. Moving quickly and quietly, he went to the doorway. He could see his desk – it was covered with neat stacks of paper. Someone had come in and taken all the letters, documents, notes of hand – the meticulous records of transactions that he kept in his safe. His entire criminal history stacked up in the open. Why? Who? Where were they?

Then a curl of smoke wafted up from among the documents. Instinctively, Beaumont darted to the desk, ready to quench the fire, only to find himself staring at a harmless cylinder, emitting a little smoke without a flame. A toy. The kind of thing a mischievous schoolboy might place in a classroom wastebasket to unnerve a teacher.

Then the door closed behind him with a soft click, and he spun round. He knew the man by reputation -specifically the black and white mask.

"Mr Black." Beaumont drawled. "Your methods are more juvenile than I have been led to believe."

"Smoke Joke." Black replied. "Joke's on you."

"Is it?" Beaumont said. "You could have taken me from behind, you know. Now we are both in equal danger, are we not?"

"Just you." Was the answer.

The Major was impressed by the mans' coolness, and was trying hard to match it. "From what I hear of you, sir, I would not have thought that a man who merely takes advantage of foolish wealthy young men would draw your notice?"

"James and Eleanor Ashleigh." Black replied. "Remember them?"

A chill swept through Beaumont. He had never expected to hear those names again. James Ashleigh, the only son of Lord Ashleigh, the shipping magnate, had been the ideal victim for Beaumont, but then the Major had seen his twin sister, Eleanor, and from that moment had not been able to think of anything else. Discarding his usual restraint, he had driven the boy to the edge of ruin, then offered to write off the entire debt in exchange for an evening of Eleanors' company.

Naïve, and devoted to her brother, the young woman had come to his lodgings as arranged. When Beaumont had made clear the full extent and nature of the 'company' he sought, she had consented and permitted him to have his way. Then she had left his house and thrown herself into the Thames. When her body was finally found, James went home and blew out his brains. The Organisation had acted quickly to erase any but the most superficial links between Beaumont and the Ashleighs, and the last he had heard had been a stiff letter from Lord Ashleigh, accompanied by a cheque for five pounds 'in settlement of my sons' debts of honour'.

"An over-indulgence on my part." Beaumont allowed. "You must believe that I did not intend the outcome. I treated Eleanor with consideration, she had given her consent, after all. I ensured that there would be no issue, and took care not to hurt her."

"Not her body." Black said. "But her mind?"

"How could I know she would be so frail?" The Major protested. "There have been others, and they went on with their lives. Why should I think Eleanor any different?"

"Others?" Black said. "Worse than I thought."

_He is as foolish as he is mad_. Beaumont was thinking. His speeches had been only to conceal a series of small movements that had brought him into prime position. Black had kept his hands in his pockets, no doubt on at least one weapon. Beaumont had his own revolver on him, but a shot would bring neighbours and with them the police. He would have neither the time nor the opportunity to secrete the damning documents again. But his pistol was not his only weapon.

During the conversation he had quietly loosened the handle of his cane, now he dropped the outer casing and lunged at Black with the blade that had been hidden within it. He heard an odd popping sound and a cold pain seared into his chest. Everything blurred, and then he was lying on the floor. Above him, the blade stuck quivering in the panelled wall his target had been standing in front of. _Where did he go?_ It was his last thought.

The man known to some as Mr White and to others as Mr Black left Beaumont's body where it lay and left the building unseen and unheard. It was late, but tomorrow was Sunday, so there would be no work – his employer was a strict Sabbatarian who closed the office on the Lords' Day. It was a restriction on his real work that Black accepted.

As it often did in the aftermath of a job, his mind went back to the old question.

_Did he mean to do it?_ He wondered. _If he'd meant to kill me, I'd be dead. Did he mean to send me here? Or just away? Worst place. Best place. Long ago. Far away. Needed here. Did he know?_

_From the Diary of John H Watson, MD_

Frustration is at some time the lot of all men, and my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes was no exception. As well as the many cases he had brought to a successful conclusion, there were a few where matters had ended less well. In the case documented as _The Valley of Fear_, for instance, the agents of the late Professor Moriarty had succeeded in ending the life of John Douglas. Also in the case of the Five Orange Pips, justice had been thwarted by the forces of Nature herself.

On this particular morning, the living room of our Baker Street quarters was strewn with documents, scrapbooks and other records. Holmes had finally decided to look over and set in order the records of the years before his disappearance and supposed death.

"Please remember that the state of this room is entirely your fault, Watson!" He said, not entirely seriously.

"Why mine, Holmes?" I asked.

"Your stories, of course, my dear fellow!" He answered genially. "I have often commented adversely upon their scientific merit, as you know. That said, you have a clear ability to untangle the human stories behind the cases, whereas I view each one as simply an intellectual challenge. Your work has enhanced my reputation and brought both of us into our current state of financial independence.

"But you will allow that they are not, in any sense, works of instruction and science?"

"Most certainly." I replied. "Nor are they intended as such, but merely accounts of extraordinary events, presented for the interest of the public. I do not presume to the skills needed to write a work such as you describe."

"Quite so!" Holmes said. "But as the years pass, and my inevitable retirement from work looms, I would wish to leave behind something that will allow the principles and practices I have spent my life developing to be utilised by those who might follow me."

"A splendid Idea!" I said. "One I hoped you would eventually come to. Is there any way in which I can assist you?"

"My thanks, old fellow." He said. "It would help if you could look through those books of Press cuttings. Separate our cases out from the other stuff?"

The task was a congenial one, but as I proceeded through, I came across a slender book filled with cuttings concerning only one case. I could not help but shake my head and sigh, whereupon Holmes came over and looked at what I held.

"Ah!" He said. "The Whitechapel Murders! I share your feelings, Watson!"

"It is a mystery to me why you were never consulted on the case." I remarked.

"Turn to the back of the book." Holmes told me.

I did so, finding in the back cover a short letter on the paper of the Metropolitan Police.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_I have been urged by my colleagues Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson to consult with you on the matter of the recent murders in Whitechapel._

_I am aware, Sir, of your reputation in resolving tangled cases and have every respect for your powers. However, I am also aware that you are a private practitioner who has had clients at the very highest level of Society._

_It is my feeling that to involve you in the very brutal but regrettably commonplace murders of these unfortunate women would be to do you a disservice in the eyes of your distinguished clientele._

_May I also say, with all due respect to yourself and those of my colleagues who have worked with you, that to bring a private detective into such a public case would be in some measure detrimental to the reputation of the Force I serve in._

_I must therefore ask you to stay out of this case, not to comment to the Press in any way and not to undertake any private commissions connected with this case._

_I am, Sir,_

_Yours very sincerely_

_Frederick G Abberline (Inspector)_

"Mr Abberline was, and is, a thoroughly professional, careful and knowledgeable policeman." Holmes remarked. "But he lacks a certain flair, a touch of imagination, I fear."

"As well as being too stiff-necked to ask for help!" I pointed out.

"Perhaps." Holmes settled back into his chair and took up a pipe. "Nevertheless I am grateful to him."

"How so?" I asked.

"Initially, I was, like yourself, frustrated at not being consulted. Indeed I was rather put out by being warned off, however courteously. But as the case progressed, I came to see that it was, to all intents and purposes, insoluble. I would have risked, and lost, much of my reputation -a reputation, I admit, owed in no small part to your efforts, Watson – had I become involved and not reached a conclusion."

"You say that you could not have found the Ripper?" I was astounded at such an admission, I knew my friends' faith in his methods.

Holme shook his head. "You are a military man, Watson, you have seen the battlefield. Could you, employing my methods, trace the death of any individual soldier on that battlefield to the man who killed him?"

I considered the matter. "The aftermath of battle is chaotic." I admitted. "Bodies lie where they fell, or where they were pushed aside by retreating or advancing men, or thrown by exploding shells, or even in the places they crawled to after a mortal wound. The ground is churned and littered with debris. The carrion birds and the rats descend on the bodies even as the fight rages.

"By comparison, the scenes of murders we have seen, Holmes, are clean and tidy."

"Precisely, Watson." Holmes agreed. "My methods resolve around the ability to see what does not belong. A footprint on a chair-seat, a chip in stonework, a scratch on a table, an ornament out of place. From these small things, I can build a picture of events.

"But Whitechapel, Watson, is a daily battlefield. Throngs of people pass through all these places, day and night. Refuse is strewn incontinently into streets, alleys and yards. People shift and wander, rarely staying in the same place for more than a few months. They wear what they can find, the cast-offs of the more fortunate. Clothing, personal effects, are passed from hand to hand in return for food or drink. Among all that chaos, even I would be unable to unearth any sign that might point me to my man.

"Many of these people work only as much as they need to. As soon as they earn enough for drink and a nights' lodging, they are off. When there is no work, they will steal, or the women will sell themselves. Violent death is a daily occurrence, and were it not for the singular brutality of the killings and mutilations, the Whitechapel Murders might have been lost among all the others that pass unremarked there."

"Surely the very nature of the killings is in itself a clue?" I asked.

"Is it?" Holmes raised an eyebrow. "The killer was described at various times as having the skills of a doctor, a butcher or even a huntsman. He was said to have been a Jew, a Freemason or a nihilist. Some say he had syphilis, others that he was a nobleman or even a Prince of the Realm!

"They say he was mad, but if he was, he was a singularly clever and careful madman!"

"Was?" I questioned. "You think him dead, then?"

Holmes nodded. "With the death of Mary Kelly, he had achieved his greatest triumph. He had had the time and leisure to accomplish all he wished. Having once tasted such glory, he had no reason to stop, but he did. I surmise that at some point soon after, he met his end either from sickness, accident, or at the hands of one of his own kind. I doubt his true identity will ever be known."

It was at that point that Mrs Hudson entered.

"Here's a letter for you, Mr Holmes!" She said. "Delivered by hand a moment ago."

"Ah!" Holmes rose at once. "Could this be a case, I wonder?"

He perused the letter quickly, then passed it to me.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_A matter has come to my notice which requires your particular skills and known discretion. If you and your colleague Dr Watson would be so kind as to call upon me this afternoon at half-past two, I will place the business before you for your consideration. The address is on the enclosed card._

_I am aware that cupidity is not among your vices, but be assured that all your expenses will be covered, and that a substantial fee will be paid for a successful conclusion._

_Believe me, Sir_

_Dr James Noel._

"What do you think, Watson?" Holmes asked.

"It does indeed sound like a case." I said. "I also glean that this Dr Noel is acting as an agent for someone else. From which I infer that the real client is someone with a reputation to protect?"

"Bravo, Watson! You make progress!" Holmes cried. "Of course, it is also possible that the client wishes to remain unknown for more sinister reasons. Or even that this Dr Noel is merely a _nom de guerre_ and that he is actually the client. This handwriting is clearly disguised in some fashion. Both it and the style are vaguely familiar to me, but I cannot place them."

"In which case," I warned, "it might well be a trap! We have made our share of enemies, Holmes."

"So we have, so we have!" He agreed. "So I think we shall both take our revolvers along, old fellow. It is always good to have an argument to hand, if the debate becomes heated, don't you think?"

Sycamore Lodge, as the house was called, was within sight of Hampstead Heath. A substantial Georgian edifice, set back from the road in its' own grounds.

"It seems our Dr Noel is no ordinary practitioner." Holmes noted. "Even when you had a thriving practice, Watson, such an abode would have been beyond your means."

Our ring was answered by an imposing and laconic footman, who seemed to recognise us.

"The Doctor is in his study." He said. "Follow me."

The rooms we were led through were bright and tastefully furnished.

"So our host is a married man." Holmes observed quietly. "It is not beyond the capacity of a bachelor to choose decent furnishings and paintings, but such small touches as fresh-cut flowers and lace doilies speak of a womans' hand."

The study itself was, in the Georgian style, a well-proportioned room lit by two large windows. There was a heavy oak desk, with chair in front, but none behind. In one corner was a large globe, in another a small table holding a tantalus, a soda syphon and glasses. The walls were lined with bookshelves.

But our attention was taken by the figure seated in a wheelchair by the windows. As the footman announced us, he turned the chair with some dexterity and came forward.

Though he no longer stood tall, he was still thin, the shoulders still rounded. The highly-domed forehead, sunken eyes in a pale, ascetic, beardless face and the constant slow oscillating movement of the head were all as Holmes had described them to me many years ago.

"Mr Holmes." The voice was soft and measured. "It is surprisingly pleasant to see you again. Dr Watson, I have not previously had the honour, but I have often envied my old adversary such a stalwart companion!"

For the first time since I had known him, Holmes seemed utterly bewildered.

"Professor Moriarty?" He said.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Adventure of Mr White and Mr Black**

**Part Two**

Mr Josiah Cartwright, of Cartwright and Company, Ships' Chandlers and Victuallers, was an elderly man of middle height. Vigorous white hair and whiskers framed a face of rubicund benevolence that nevertheless did not distract from the shrewdness of his eyes. Soberly clad in a dark suit, white shirt and cravat, the only sartorial indulgence he permitted himself was the heavy silver watch-chain that stretched across his capacious waistcoat.

It was indeed a balance of shrewdness and benevolence that had made the company such a successful one. If Mr Cartwright drove a hard bargain, he drove a fair one, and delivered on time and in full. A strict adherent of the Methodist sect, he himself eschewed both drink and tobacco, though he saw no sin in setting and enjoying a fine table otherwise. His employees he treated with rather more indulgence. He realised the inevitability of his warehousemen, lightermen and clerks indulging themselves in snuff, a pipe, a cigar or cigarette, and did not grudge them a pint of beer or porter betimes. But woe betide any worker seen indulging in spirits, or caught in a state of intoxication, either on or off work! Such offences meant immediate dismissal without a character.

In the same way, Mr Cartwright was not a man who would profane the Sabbath, or allow his employees to do so. The office and warehouses were closed on Sundays, and only essential deliveries made. But he saw fit to ensure that his people lost no wages by comparison with those less regardful of the Lords' Day. His tolerance even extended to a willingness to hire – in junior posts – communicants of the Church of England, but any Papist who might foolishly apply for a position in the company would, of course receive short shrift. Laxity of doctrine was one thing, but simple idolatry and outright blasphemy quite another!

Still, there were times when his kindly nature was brought up against the demands of his faith, and this might be one of them. He considered the man sitting opposite him. Not overly tall, but gaunt. Wearing a sober but inexpensive suit. Clean shaven, with short-cropped red hair, a thin, immobile face with a stern mouth and unflinching eyes that somehow seemed focused _inward_.

"Mr Kovacs," Cartwright began. "you have been working here for some three years now, is that correct?"

"Yes." That was another thing about the man. He never spoke a word he didn't have to.

"I will admit," Cartwright carried on, "that I had some misgivings about taking you on. You were rather older than the usual applicant for a junior clerical post, and had you not demonstrated such exceptional skills, I would have chosen another.

"However, your reliability, punctuality and the standard of your work has been such as to fully justify your promotion to the position of Senior Clerk, which you have held for the past twelve months.

"Now as you are aware, our Office Manager. Mr Beamish, will be leaving us at the end of this month. His wife has suffered with her chest these last three years, and on the advice of her doctor, they are moving to Torquay in Devon, where the gentle climate and sea air are deemed beneficial.

"This will leave a vacancy in what you will agree is a vital post. A vacancy which one might expect yourself, or your fellow Senior Clerk, Mr Pemberton, to fill."

"Pemberton has been here longer." Kovacs noted.

"Undoubtedly." Cartwright admitted. "But as you know, the post of Office Manager entails not only the management of the clerks, office boys and accounts, but also dealing with our customers.

"Now while there is little difference in clerical skills between yourself and Mr Pemberton, there are differences in character. Mr Pemberton is an affable gentleman, on easy terms with everyone. Too easy, perhaps, as the juniors and boys occasionally take advantage of his good nature. You, Mr Kovacs, are regarded with respect by all our employees, but your manner is stiff and forbidding, which, may I say it, is off-putting to customers.

"I am therefore minded to promote you both. Yourself to Office Manager, and Mr Pemberton to Business Manager, where he will deal exclusively with our growing list of customers."

"Good idea." Kovacs remarked. "More customers now. Need more attention. Better for business."

"Quite." Cartwright had grown used to the mans' directness by now, realising it was not the insolence he had first suspected. He had developed the notion that the apparently humble Mr Kovacs was in fact of far better birth than any one else in the office – certain references in his sparse speech spoke of a genteel, if not noble, education. What might have brought the man this low, Cartwright did not care to imagine. His observation of Kovacs' character led him to believe that it was nothing dishonourable to himself. A profligate father's bankruptcy, perhaps, or rivalry with a less honourable older brother for an inheritance. It might explain his bachelor status – such a man would not consider marriage a possibility in those circumstances.

"However, there is one more difficulty." He went on. "I am, as you are aware, a man of Christian principles. Now I have noted that in your dealing with your colleagues and subordinates, you have had occasion to refer to the Bible, especially when advising or admonishing those junior to you. You have in fact demonstrated a knowledge of Scripture of which I find myself envious. I have made enquiries, as one must when considering promotion to such a vital position, and find that you live a frugal life, even whilst in receipt of a salary which places a few innocent indulgences within your reach.

"But I find no indication of your attendance at either a church or a chapel. You must understand, Mr Kovacs, that to a man of my convictions, such an omission on your part is concerning. Can you tell me anything that might resolve the matter?"

Kovacs cocked his head to one side. "Are you a travelling man?" He asked.

A light seemed to dawn on Cartwrights' face. "Yes, I am." He replied.

"Where do you travel?" Kovacs went on.

"From West to East." Cartwright answered, then stretched his hand across the desk to exchange a grip. "Well, then," he said, "that resolves the situation satisfactorily. Speak to Mr Beamish tomorrow regarding your new duties."

The term "Black Hand" was not used openly in Clerkenwell, despite the fact that it was the heart of Londons' Italian community. It was not safe, as it was in New York or Chicago. In those cities, most of the police were Irish, and followed the True Faith, and understood human frailty. But these Protestant English policemen, with their austere chapels and grim asceticism, were harder to deal with. If a man cannot confess his sins and obtain absolution, his only choice is not to sin, and how can things be made right with such a man?

But the Hand was still here, and Don Sabini was still _padrone_. Maybe the people did not kiss his hand as he walked the crowded streets and markets, but he still collected what was due him. He was a man of respect, so it was unusual for him to be jostled. He turned to take note of the man, so that he could be found and taught later.

A glimpse of a dark ulster and slouch hat, then a sudden cold pain in his groin and a wave of dizziness. Warmth and wetness down his leg. He pulled his coat aside, blood was coursing down his leg, staining the fabric of his trousers and pooling around his foot. So much blood. He felt weak, and cold. His sight was fading. He tried to make for a nearby shop, but collapsed to the ground instead.

There are many kinds of respect, but that inspired by fear does not prompt people to either help or compassion. The crowds on the street knew better than to interfere as the _padrone_ bled to death from a severed femoral artery. Who knew where his end had been decreed? Better to look the other way, or you might be next.

_From the Diary of John H Watson, MD._

Professor Moriarty did not seem disposed to relish or enjoy his old foes' astonishment.

"Yes, yes, Mr Holmes, I survived!" He said testily. "I am neither so young nor so vigorous as yourself, and I was badly injured. Fortunately, Colonel Moran was not the only aide I had with me at the time, and rescue arrived in due course."

"And the new name?" Holmes asked.

"Is my actual, legal name, the name of my father, my mothers' husband." Moriarty replied.

A light seemed to dawn on Holmes. "You are the natural son of _the_ James Noel?" He asked. "The criminal genius who almost dominated Europe many years ago?"

"The same." Moriarty affirmed. "I was a boy, and you a mere infant at the time, Mr Holmes. The scandal associated with the revelation of my fathers' activities caused my mother to resume her maiden name, and with her fathers' permission, to do the same for my brothers and I."

"It seems that the apple does not fall far from the tree." I was compelled to remark.

"Indeed so, Dr Watson." Moriarty replied. "My mother took great care to conceal the matter from us, and I did not know of my fathers' achievements until my own criminal career was well started."

"So why are we here?" Holmes asked.

"Pray sit." Moriarty – for so I still thought of him – insisted. "You are under no threat here, and this will take time.

"You must know that your efforts, Mr Holmes, left my organisation broken, crippled, but not beyond recovery. Moran was never more than a murderous rogue, but there were others I could rely on – buried deep within respectable society -who would come forward and begin rebuilding. It was my hope, when we confronted each other at Reichenbach, that I would be able to return and take up the reins again, rebuild fully and even expand."

He sighed and shrugged. "But it was not to be. As I lay in the Swiss clinic, knowing that my legs were beyond repair, I was confronted with my own mortality, and granted a moment of clarity. I was growing old, Mr Holmes!

"I knew you had survived, and guessed that in due course you would return to your old haunts and occupation. You would be in your prime, your powers at their peak, whilst I would be physically crippled, and aging – my own abilities fading.

"I had taken care to provide for my old age years before, so when I was able to travel again, I came here. I resumed my father's name, knowing it to be all but forgotten, and live quietly, pursuing my mathematical studies while I still can.

"The organisation I founded still exists, and is the most powerful criminal organisation in London, but it is a shadow of what it was, and has many rivals. I leave it to itself.

"But recently, some of my people have approached me for advice on a singular series of events. I am no longer able to pursue the matter myself, so am forced to place it in the hands of the only man capable of resolving the issue. Yourself, Mr Holmes!"

"What events are these?" Holmes asked.

"Why, murder, of course!" Moriarty said with a smile. "The brutal and precise murders of several well-known criminals, as well as a number of less successful, but particularly vicious, individuals. My sources tell me that Inspector Lestrade will de seeking your advice on one such case later today."

"And why," Holmes asked, "should I interest myself in such cases? The police are duty-bound to investigate any and all murders, no matter who the victim. As a private practitioner, I have no such duty. Nor do I have any inclination to seek justice for anyone whose death -however brutal -is in itself a form of justice."

"You fail to see the broader picture, Mr Holmes!" Moriarty said. "This murderer is not confining his attentions to one group or gang. He has killed members of my former organisation, of the Fenian gangs, the Italian Black Hand, even the Chinese Tongs. The leaders of these organisations do not believe that this is the work of one man, but of agents of their rivals. If this continues, the rivalries among the gangs will break into open war!

"Not just street brawls, Mr Holmes, but shootings, bombings, arson, anarchy! Conflict beyond the ability of the police to handle. The Government would call in troops. London would be aflame. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, would die. Many more would lose their property and livelihoods.

"You called me a master criminal, Holmes, and you were right. But crime is by its' nature a parasite. It requires a host, a healthy society to feed from. If the parasite kills the host, it kills itself. Unchecked violence among the cities' criminals would open the door to others. Those whose aims are political, not financial. Revolution could arise from this, under the prompting of foreign powers.

"Do you see now why it is most important you involve yourself in this?"

Holmes' manner had changed. He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed, fingertips pressed together in the old way.

"We seem finally to have found something to agree on." He said. "I will certainly look into the matter. Please give me all the information you have on the matter."

Relief was clear on Moriartys' features. He pressed the bell on his desk, and when the silent footman appeared, he said "Sturgis, find Miss Darkholme and ask her to fetch the item here, please.

"Now, Mr Holmes, I am afraid the information I have is sketchy at best. The person you are seeking is known as 'Mr White' by those unfortunates who have benefited from his summary dealings with petty extortionists, pimps or abusive partners. To the gangs and organisations who have suffered from his depredations, he is known as Mr Black."

"And you are sure this is the same individual?" Holmes asked.

"There is always room for error, of course." Moriarty noted. "To the downtrodden poor, Mr White is a champion, a protector. To the criminal fraternity, he is an assassin in the pay of their enemies.

"But in every case where he has been seen, the description does not vary. A man of medium height and gaunt build, wearing a dark ulster and slouch hat, his face covered by a black and white mask. He is laconic and oddly clipped in his speech, and described as very fast and strong. He is clearly an expert in hand-to-hand combat, knife-fighting and the garrotte.

"Everything else that I have been able to gather is contained in these documents, which you may take to peruse at your leisure.

"Now there is one more thing…ah! There you are, my dear, punctual as ever!"

Warned by the rustle of silk and the waft of delicate perfume, Holmes and I both rose as a lady came into the room to stand beside Moriarty. Taller than most women, with a fine but slim figure and a regal carriage, she wore a simple but elegant blue day-dress. Her features were flawless under a mass of dark red hair, and dominated by watchful amber eyes. She was carrying a large rosewood box, which she handed to Moriarty.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, may I present Miss Raven Darkholme." Moriarty announced. "Like myself, Miss Darkholmes' career was cut short when she met her match. Our paths had crossed in the past, to mutual benefit, and when I retired here, she chose to join me and has been my companion ever since. Your look of assumed shock is unnecessary, Dr Watson; everyone here knows that you are not unaccustomed to the companionship of unmarried women!"

"Please sit down, gentlemen." Miss Darkholme said in soft but authoritative tones. She seated herself close to Moriarty, almost protectively so.

Moriarty passed the box to Holmes.

"This is one of many souvenirs of my past that I keep." He said. "There are only two, of which this is the first. They was designed by the same man who built the air-rifle with which Colonel Moran attempted to assassinate you."

Holmes opened the box, which was clearly a gun-case of some kind, and e both examined the contents. It was a pistol, but of a kind I had never seen before. The barrel was short, and the bore extremely fine. The cylinder was also shorter than usual, and there was no trace of a hammer. The butt was unusually full and rounded. The case also contained four metal tubes, a small box full of what appeared to be steel needles, and a pump-like device.

"Some kind of air-pistol?" I hazarded.

"Indeed." Holmes said. "I presume that the larger cylinders can be filled with compressed air by means of the electric pump. They are then inserted into the hollow butt, the weapon is loaded with the needles, and the trigger operates a mechanism whereby enough air is expelled to fire the dart?"

"Precisely so, Mr Holmes." Moriarty said. "Pray do not touch the darts with bare fingers. They are coated in the secretions of the golden poison frog of South America, a two-inch long creature that has enough poison on its skin to kill ten men!

"The weapon is designed for close range use -at more than ten yards it cannot penetrate ordinary clothing. At longer range, one must aim for areas of exposed skin, where even the lightest touch of the dart will have serious effects.

"I show you this, because the other was taken from one of my former lieutenants, quite possibly by the man you seek.

"Now is there anything else you require of me?"

"Other than that you answer for your crimes?" Holmes said. "No, and we will leave that in abeyance, for now. I will investigate the matter, and will keep you informed. Come, Watson!"

As we rose to leave, Miss Darkholme said. "Mr Holmes, please give my regards to Mr Mycroft Holmes when next you see him."

"You know my brother?" Holmes enquired.

"Indeed." Was the reply. "He is the cause of my being here. My career in espionage was cut short when I crossed paths with him. I escaped by the skin of my teeth that time, and I doubt I should ever be so lucky again. Tell him I have every respect for him."

_From the Diary of John H Watson, MD._

When we arrived back at Baker Street, a telegram awaited us:

MEET ME AT FLAT 15 RALEIGH APARTMENTS. MATTER OF INTEREST AND URGENCY. LESTRADE.

"It seems my old adversary retains at least some of his former omniscience." Holmes remarked. "Lestrade is just about the best of the professionals, and would not call on me unless the case were particularly difficult.

"Come, old fellow, the games' afoot!"

It was rare for Holmes to venture onto personal matters, but in the hansom he said to me.

"I hope, Watson, that Moriartys' remarks on the situation between yourself and Miss Hunter were not too blunt and painful for you?"

I shrugged. "I should not have been surprised at his knowing about it, I suppose. Violet and I have an intimate relationship of which neither of us is ashamed. We would very much like to marry, and would do so if not for the difficulties Violet faces. She is determined to retain her post, a determination which I share -Violets' talents and energy are far too great to be wasted on housewifery, especially when good domestics are so readily available. However the school governors, though anxious to retain her due to the quality of her work, are hesitant as to the propriety of employing a married woman."

It was Holmes' turn to shrug. "I am not, as you know old fellow, easy in the company of women. Their thought processes are alien to one as wedded to pure unemotional logic as I. But I do not see how the addition of a wedding ring serves to make a formerly valued employee of no further use."

"Nor do I." I agreed. "We must hope that as the new century approaches, such ideas and customs take their rightful place as historical oddities."

Lestrade awaited us at the door of the apartment.

"Glad you could come, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson." He greeted us. "This is a strange one, to be sure, but that's not the only reason I sent for you."

He led us down a short corridor into a room that was clearly laid out as a study. The body of a man in his forties lay prone on the floor, his head turned to one side. Above him, thrust into the panelling at about chest height, was a long thin blade, the hilt of which was the silver head of a dress cane. The man himself was in evening dress.

"Major Charles Beaumont." Lestrade said. "He used his rank despite having been cashiered from the Army. He's lived here for several years – a quiet tenant and regular with his rent. He has a decent annuity, which he supplement by his winnings at cards.

"It seems he left his club about half-past midnight last night, and was not seen again until his solicitor came for an appointment an hour ago and could get no response. Since the appointment was an important one, involving a pending court case in which the Major was plaintiff, he would not have forgotten it. Fearing he might be ill, the solicitor fetched the manager, who used his pass-key, found this and called the police. Quite sensibly, he and the solicitor have touched nothing and my men have left the scene undisturbed."

"Excellent, Lestrade!" Holmes said. "The Major is not unknown to me – he moved in the same circles as a certain Professor and there are indications that he supplemented his income by methods more sinister than mere gambling.

"Do you, Watson, examine the body, while I see what may be seen."

Some few minutes later, Holmes came over. "The door lock was picked, as was the lock of the safe. Rather deftly -our man is an old hand, it seems – but there are small scratches left by something much finer than a key. There is also this." He held up a small carboard cylinder. "I found it among the papers upon the desk. A child's prank, such as might be purchased for a farthing at any toy-shop. When the string is pulled, the chemicals within the tube mix to emit, after a small delay, a quantity of harmless smoke.

"I would infer that the intruder broke into the flat some time before Major Beaumont came home, ransacked the safe and placed its contents upon the desk. On hearing the Majors' key in the door, he must have activated the smoke tube and placed it among the papers. Naturally, seeing his documents apparently about to burn, the Major would have rushed into the room, allowing the murderer to trap him.

"Thee must have been some kind of conversation – perhaps an exchange of threats -during which the Major attempted to attack the intruder with his sword-cane. Which only leaves us to question how he came by his death.

"Watson?"

"_Rigor mortis_ has fully set in." I replied. "Which tells me that the Major died at least twelve hours ago. There are no signs of violence on the parts of the body I can see, no head injury or marks on the neck. The face is not suffused or congested, or I might be inclined to suspect heart failure or apoplexy. But there might be marks on the front. Can the body be moved?"

"We've made drawings," Lestrade said, "so he can be moved now."

Upon rolling the body, I found that the victims' spotless white shirt was stained with blood, as was the carpet beneath. Borrowing Holmes' glass, I found a small puncture in the fabric, and upon opening the shirt, a corresponding wound.

"Some kind of needle or dart." I said. "Probably poisoned, as the wound itself is not large or deep enough to kill instantly. It has bled freely, but for only a short time, indicating that death was swift, but not instantaneous."

"Any idea as to what poison?" Lestrade asked.

I considered for a moment. "During my time in India, I had to deal with a number of snakebite injuries." I said. "The effects differed according to the species of snake involved. Some affected the blood, preventing it from carrying oxygen around the body. Others, however, were paralytics which rendered the muscles flaccid, including those involved in the action of breathing and even the heart itself. Given the amount of blood and the speed with which it killed, I would be inclined to say a very powerful paralytic was used."

"Well, the post-mortem might tell us more." Lestrade said. "I'll warn them to watch out for that dart!

"Now, Mr Holmes, I said there was another reason I sent for you, and this is it."

He handed Holmes a foolscap envelope on which, in a large, bold hand, was written:

_For the attention of Mr Sherlock Holmes_.

"Hm!" Holmes said. "Commonplace envelope. You might buy it at any Post Office or stationery shop. The handwriting, though, that is almost unique. This is not the copperplate of English schools, nor the italic of a lady, nor is it German gothic script or any European style. I have published a monograph upon styles of handwriting, as a result of which, an American gentleman named Austin Palmer sent me a book he had published outlining a new system of teaching handwriting. If my memory is not faulty, then the person who wrote this did so using Palmers' method!"

He opened the envelope carefully. Inside were a number of typewritten foolscap sheets and a single sheet of notepaper, handwritten.

"Again, commonplace paper -good enough but not high quality. No finger marks. Medium nib pen, ordinary ink. Our man is careful.

"What do you make of this, Watson?"

I took the note and read:

_Holmes,_

_Knew they'd call you in. Had to use the gun this time. Knew you'd come after me sometime anyway. Better if you don't. We both do the same job. Just different methods. No need to face off._

_The goods on Beaumont are here. Waste of skin, needed taking out._

_No organization. No gang. Just me. Catch me if you can. Like a challenge._

_Sincerely,_

_Rorschach_

"Rorschach sounds German." I ventured.

"Quite." Holmes said impatiently. "But really, is that all you see?"

"He writes a letter as if it were a telegram." I said. "As for anything else…."

Holmes sighed. "He is a man of education. Despite the laconic style, he is perfectly clear in his meaning. He is an American -'the goods' is American criminal slang for information, and only an American would put a 'z' in 'organisation' when every other word is spelt correctly. He is, or feels himself to be, a man of more than ordinary intelligence – he does not wish to challenge me, but he does not fear me either. He is a man assured of his own right to make judgements upon others – those he considers a 'waste of skin'.

"We face, my dear Watson, an opponent worthy of our steel!"


	3. Chapter 3

**The Adventure of Mr White and Mr Black**

**Part Three**

Mr Radisson was clean-shaven, spare of build and soberly dressed. He spoke to his clients in the quiet tones of a man of business. He was scrupulous in the keeping of his accounts and discreet in his dealings. Mr Radisson had every appearance of a respectable man.

His business was another matter. He provided services to men (and occasionally women), with particular tastes and interests. He provided a place where they might explore these interests, equipment they might use and the necessary supply of subjects. Most importantly, he provided discretion, though extra fees were charged for the disposal of remains, when necessary.

The subjects were actually the least difficult of these things to obtain. The teeming streets of London were full of nameless, hopeless wretches – neither known nor cared about. Spiriting them away was a simple matter. The equipment required by his clients was another matter. Such items as whips, chains, switches and knives were commonplace, true. But stocks, racks, thumbscrews, scolds' bridles and guillotines needed to be made, and Mr Radisson would not settle for poor quality. His clients expected, and paid for, the very best experience, and he was prepared to supply nothing less.

The new client, Mr Black, had come with the required letter of introduction from an established client. He was masked, which was not unusual -discretion was the watchword here – but his attire was rather plain, a dark ulster and slouch hat. Nevertheless, the letter was in form and the introduction fee had been paid.

"Obviously, the experiments you conduct are your own affair, Mr Black." He was saying. "If your interest is historical, as you can see, we have a number of traditional devices. If you have a more scientific bent, we have a range of electrical instruments which can be used to produce a variety of effects. We also have a fine collection of pharmaceuticals, ranging from natural alkaloids to pure products of modern chemistry.

"We have a variety of specimens in stock, of course, and can fill most requirements in terms of type, gender and race at any time. If you do have specific requirements, there may be a small delay while they are obtained, and we would expect you to defray any extra expenses involved. Should your work render a specimen permanently unsuitable for further use, there will be a surcharge to cover disposal and replacement.

"Now, when would you like me to book your first session?"

"Now will do." Black said.

When the police, in response to an anonymous note, broke into the premises, it was immediately clear that Mr Radisson had been given the opportunity to try out a great many of his devices, over an extended period of time. The remains were neatly stacked in the centre of the floor, despite the fact that many parts of them had been detached from each other.

The floor above -inaccessible from the outside – proved to contain numerous small cells holding people. They were, in the main, well-fed and clean, but most were horribly scarred, some were missing limbs or eyes, and all were drugged with laudanum, which was beginning to wear off.

Mr Radissons' office contained a large number of substantial ledgers -he had been a meticulous man – which were immediately seized by Government officials.

_From the Diary of John H Watson, MD_

The morning following our meeting with Moriarty, I arose betimes, to find that Holmes had already gone. He had left a note saying that there was research he must do, and that he would not be back until late afternoon. I had long ago realised that to think about the case would be a waste of my time. I lacked both Holmes' specialised knowledge and formidable powers of concentration. So instead I set about spending my day as normal, which would be perhaps the best preparation for whatever might happen.

I was reading 'The Times' – I had been following, in desultory way, an ongoing correspondence between the noted astronomer Ogilvy of Ottershaw, Stent, the Astronomer Royal, and a number of others regarding the eruptions seen on the surface of Mars several months before -when a message came for me.

Though I had long since abandoned general practice -the income generated by my published works and the sale of my old practice were more than sufficient for my simple needs – I still undertook medical work from time to time for particular patients or clients. Madame Morgan was one such.

Let me say, here and now, that I am no supporter of vice. The conditions existing in which poorer women are forced to sell themselves for a livelihood are, and should be, a source of reproach to the entire country. But as a medical man, I also understand that many men are bedevilled by certain urges and needs. Following those needs can sometimes lead to scandal and compromise, more often to the birth of more children than a family can fully support. So while the government, driven by the Church, continued to criminalise the use of birth control, there was a need to provide relief.

It was this service that Madame Morgan and the women she called her 'ladies' provided. It was, in the eyes of the time, both immoral and illegal, but sadly necessary. At least her modest house was clean and warm. The women were fed, clothed and, given Madames' penchant for hiring former soldiers as 'footmen', safe.

Madame herself was a tall woman with a splendid figure, red hair and penetrating green eyes. She had been an acquaintance of mine both before my marriage and after the death of my wife, when she decided to set up her venture, she asked me to act as physician to the establishment. Upon this occasion, she wished me to conduct an examination of a young woman recently brought into her establishment.

The girl was introduced to me as 'Harriet'. A pert-looking creature with a wealth of brown hair. She was understandably nervous, having never in her life been thoroughly examined before, But Madames' invariable custom, at my request, was to supply a chaperone. The chaperone was Eliza, a buxom, fair-haired woman in her late thirties who usually fulfilled this function, having at one time been a nurse.

Harriet was in her early twenties, as nearly as she could tell. Somewhat undernourished but otherwise healthy, free of parasites and venereal infection. There were fading bruises here and there, but no other scars.

"I've not been doin' it very long, Doctor." She told me. "I was tryin' to save a bit, but Big Bert never let me keep more than a few pennies fer me lodgins'. I stayed off the gin, mind! Does yer no good, that stuff!"

"Spirits, taken in moderation, can be beneficial at times." I told her. "Though beer and porter are healthier and more sustaining when taken with food."

Harriet giggled. "Yer don't sound much like any doctor I ever 'eard of!"

"Of course 'e don't!" Eliza broke in. "This is the famous Dr Watson, 'Arriet. 'Im as writes about that detective, Sherlock 'Olmes! 'E's an old friend of Madames', an' a very kind gentleman. Looks after us all proper, 'e does!"

"Well, that's three proper men I've met in me life!" Harriet asserted. "Me pore old Dad, as was worked to death in the mines, the Doctor 'ere, and Mr White!"

"Mr White?" I asked, striving to sound only ordinarily curious.

"The bloke what brought me 'ere." Harriet explained. "Not that I'd call 'im a good man, so much. 'E was decent ter me, but not kind like you, an' 'e snapped Berts' neck like a twig, mind! I didn't much care for the mask, either."

"Mr White sometimes brings us young ladies in need of 'elp." Eliza said.

I left the matter there, and went to make my report to Madame.

"Good." She said. "I thought the girl hadn't been on the streets long enough to be badly damaged. We'll feed her up a bit and then we'll see. If she likes the work, I've got room for her here. If she doesn't, well she's too spirited for a nanny, I think. But she's got a quick mind, I can send her to learn typewriting and shorthand for office work, or get her a position in one of the nicer shops.

"How about you, John? How is Miss Hunter? Are you working on a case with Mr Holmes at the moment?"

I assured her that Violet and I were both well, before entering on the matter that was most important to me.

"As it happens, Emma, Holmes and I are engaged on case at the moment, and Harriet mentioned something that might be of importance.

"What can you tell me about this Mr White?"

She looked at me for a moment, then nodded. "I thought there might be more to him than meets the eye." She said. "I first met him three years ago now. He turned up at the kitchen door with Jonathan and some poor, beaten, ragged girl. Jonathan had tried to stop him getting in, and had received a black eye and a bloody nose for his pains -something that rarely happens to a former Guardsman. The girl was in a pitiable state -starved and riddled with disease – and despite all my care, she died some days later. It was after that I decided that I must obtain the services of a competent medical man, and you, John, were my first choice.

"Since then, Mr White has turned up periodically with some poor girl in tow. I ask few questions of him, he speaks very little, but the condition of the girls, along with what they tell me, leads me to believe he has a particular anger against men who abuse women and is capable of considerable and ruthless violence in dealing with them. The only other thing I have been able to glean from him is that he heard of this place through a colleague at work who is a client."

"He himself is not one of your clients?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No. A man can change his clothing, disguise his voice, even wear a mask as Mr White does, but he cannot change the way he moves or stands so easily. Besides, all my clients are English, and Mr White is definitely American -the accent is unmistakable

"I have an instinct about such things, John, and Mr White does not strike me as the kind of man who seeks the…_company_…of women, or of other men, for that matter.

"For the rest, he is of about your height, but spare in figure, and might be in his forties. As well as the mask, he invariably wears a dark ulster of good quality, a slouch hat and leather gloves. He speaks in an odd, clipped manner, using no more words than needed to convey his meaning. I believe him to be man of education, but not sociable or amiable in character.

"Does that help?"

"It may very well, Emma." I said. "I must urge you to be careful in your dealings with this man. He is possibly very dangerous."

"No 'possibly' about it, John, he is undoubtedly dangerous!" She replied. "But not, I think, to me or anyone in this house. To yourself and Mr Holmes, on the other hand, very dangerous, if you force his hand. Please be careful, John, for Miss Hunters' sake, and mine. I do not wish to lose so good a friend as you have been, and a man who is not judgemental, who acknowledges his own weaknesses and sympathises with those of others is a rare find!"

Richard Jermyn was a scion of nobility, but of a family about which curious tales were told. He himself was the son of Sir Robert Jermyn who, it was said, had run mad and killed his three grown sons in 1852. Richard, born late in the marriage and still an infant at the time, had been saved by his nanny, just as one of his older brothers, Nevil, had managed to save his own wife and child. Richards' nanny and her husband had raised him in secret, to keep him from the madness with which his family, they said, was cursed. Thus, he was the uncle of Sir Alfred Jermyn, who had married a music-hall singer and had recently left behind his family and estates to join a circus.

Not that Richard Jermyn gave a fig for his ancestry. At the age of fourteen, he had escaped the fire in which his foster-parents had perished, and had made his way to London. Where he became first a pickpocket, then later a footpad or mugger, before being noticed by the Moriarty organisation and hired as an enforcer.

A man of contrasts, Jermyn was highly intelligent, as befits a family who had produced several noted scientists and explorers. Clever enough to rise through the ranks from a mere thug to become the deputy of Colonel Moran and eventually take over the remnant of the organisation upon the Colonels' arrest. However, he was also noted for the violent rages to which he was prone and an almost superhuman strength and agility which made him a deadly opponent.

His physical appearance was also extraordinary. The forehead was high, but the brow ridge was large and protruding over small, deep-set dark eyes that were said to turn red during his rages. A broad, almost flat nose, a heavy jaw and a thin, almost lipless mouth completed the picture. In body, he was short and thickset, with overlong muscular arms, short thick legs and large hands and feet. His head (and large portions of his body, it was whispered among the women who served his needs) was covered with coarse black hair – he wore side-whiskers but no beard. His voice was deep and guttural, but in a rage would rise to a screech.

Among the more learned -and there were many such – members of the organisation, there was much discreet discussion of Jermyns' peculiarities. 'Atavism' was a common theme, suggesting that he or his family might be regressing to a more primitive state of humanity. Others spoke of a peculiar ancestry; Sir Wade Jermyn, who had been confined to an asylum is 1760 was said to have had a wife who he claimed was Portuguese. But he had brought her back from an expedition to Africa and she had never been seen by anyone but himself.

These and darker speculations bothered Jermyn not a whit. As long as he was obeyed, feared and wealthy, people might say what they pleased about him.

Now, however, his attention was focused on his right-hand man, an ascetic-looking figure known in the ranks as Jack 'Parson' Brandon, a magsman who made his money posing as a clergyman in search of charitable donations. His smooth tongue and deceptively mild manner also made him an excellent choice for delicate missions.

"Li Shan will come, then?" Jermyn growled.

Brandon nodded. "Yes. He's no fool. Neither is Kellerman – he'll be there. So will Perezzi from the Camorra. The Back Hand are in a mess, no Padrone at the moment, so we won't be seeing them."

"What about the Irish?" Jermyn asked.

"Callaghans' as pig-headed as they come, but Janssen from the dock gangs is talking to him. They work together and respect each other, so we'll likely see them both." Brandon told him.

"Good." Jermyn said. "We need all the main organisations represented. Too many people saying this Mr Black is one of ours, even after he killed Beaumont. We have to get this sorted before it's too late!"

"Do you think he's trying to start a war?" Brandon asked.

"Damned if I know!" Jermyn responded. "It's either a one-man crusade, or a scheme to get us at each other's throats. Even if it's the one, he might succeed at the other if we don't get it under control. It goes against the grain to work together -especially the Limehouse lot -but if we're all on the look-out, we might just get him!"

"Well, I have it from our people at Scotland Yard that they've called Sherlock Holmes in on the Beaumont case." Brandon informed him.

"Have they now?" Jermyn grinned. "Normally, I'd have said that was bad news, but for once, I'm glad to hear that name! Holmes is the one man who might be able to put the derbies on Black. If he comes round asking questions about it, tell our people to answer up prompt!"

_From the Diary of John H Watson, MD_

I had barely had time to report my findings to an intently-listening Holmes when a messenger brought us an urgent summons to the Diogenes Club. Mr Mycroft Holmes was awaiting us in the Strangers' Room, his ample bulk filling one of the comfortable armchairs and an look of unusual concern on his face. He waved us into chair opposite and spoke without preamble.

"I understand, Sherlock, that you have been consulted by Lestrade on the matter of Major Beaumont?"

"I have." Holmes confirmed. "I would not have though the case to hold any interest for you, Mycroft."

"The case itself does not." Mycroft told us. "The criminal, however, does!"

"The nebulous and infamous Mr Black, or Mr White?" Holmes asked.

"The same." Mycroft allowed. "The facts of the matter are these. Late this afternoon, a note was delivered to Scotland Yard directing them to a certain address, and address that has been of interest to certain branches of the Government for some time. It was suspected that the owner of the establishment, a Mr Radisson, was involved in some manner with the slave trade. Despite the 1833 and 1807 Acts, that trade still continues in an underground manner, and white slaves in particular are highly sought after in certain countries. Because of this, agents answerable to myself were sent along with the police.

"What they found was unexpected. The entire lower floor of the building was given over to an array of instruments of torture and execution. Instruments, Sherlock, ranging from primitive whipping posts to complex electrical devices and sealed chambers where victims could be subjected to various gasses.

"It seems our Mr Radisson was in the business of providing victims- or 'specimens', as his records termed them – for his clients to torture, and occasionally kill in any way they saw fit. These victims, several of whom were found alive in cages on the upper floor, seem to have been unfortunates snatched from the streets and kept in a drugged state until required.

"Radisson himself was found dead, in a manner which indicates that he himself had undergone severe and prolonged torture.

"Now the sending of a note to the police, directing them to the scene after the fact, is characteristic of a number of cases recently where the victim had been murdered, and evidence of their crimes – sometimes suspected, sometimes not – had been placed where it could easily be found. These cases have been linked, by the criminal community themselves as well as certain police officers, to the semi-mythical Mr Black."

"Did you make no investigation of the previous incidents?" Holmes asked. "Wy did you not draw my attention to them?"

"Because the feeling in Government circles was that this man was doing more good than harm." Mycroft said heavily. "Be assured, Sherlock, that I did warn about the possibility of his actions provoking armed conflict among the criminal organisations, and the resulting disorder. However, it was pointed out to me that several regiments are always garrisoned in and around London, and that if the police could not suppress such a riot, the army certainly could!"

"Now you see why I chose private practice!" Holmes said dryly. "But since we are here, I infer that something has changed?"

"Indeed it has!" Mycroft stated. "Radisson was a meticulous keeper of records. He noted down his clients' names, dates and times of appointments, preferred 'specimen' types, the nature and duration of the 'experiments' they conducted and the charges he made for 'disposal of irretrievably damaged specimens'. All of which makes horrifying reading, true. But what concerns the Government most are the names, Sherlock. I cannot enter into specifics, but suffice to say that several highly-placed officials in Government, Church and legal system are implicated, as well as leading figures in Society.

"We do not know whether or not this Black made notes or copies of the lists. We do not know for how long he might have been in the building before or after killing Radisson. He may be waiting for it to come out in the Press. When it does not, as it will not, he may decided to take what he has to the papers himself. He must be found, Sherlock, and at the very least any information he has must be retrieved!"

"Surely," said I, "you do not intend for the people who committed these crimes to go scot-free!"

"Watson goes to the heart of the matter, as usual." Holmes noted. "I am no government man, Mycroft, and I fail to see how or why even the most eminent in the land can or should escape justice."

"They will not, believe me, Sherlock." Mycroft replied grimly. "But in these cases, justice must be done, but not seen to be done. The people concerned will be dealt with, but discreetly and over time.

"You must understand, Dr Watson, that the government of this country stands or falls on the support of the middle classes, people such as yourself, solid and respectable. At the moment, the Temperance Movement and National Vigilance Association, among others, are working to suppress vice among the working classes. Many of their leaders feel that the upper classes are far too tolerant of vice and indeed indulge in too much themselves. The aristocracy are accused of setting a poor example of virtuous behaviour, of drinking to excess, gambling and engaging in various forms of debauchery. Meanwhile the established Church is attacked by both Methodists and low churchmen of being lax in doctrine and failing to maintain strict morality even among its priests.

"If Radissons' client list were to be made public, the outcry would be immense. There would be a demand for immediate and radical reform which would make the Chartist movement seem restrained by comparison. Such instability would be ripe for exploitation by foreign agents, Socialists and Anarchists. So we must know if Black possesses a copy, and see to it that it never becomes public. I rely upon you, Sherlock, to spearhead the search!"

Though we said nothing of it on the journey back to Baker Street, I suspect that both Holmes and I were struck by the irony of the situation. Both Mycroft Holmes and Professor Moriarty feared the same results, albeit for different reasons, would arise from the actions of our mysterious quarry. Instead I asked.

"Do you think it possible, Holmes, that this Mr Black may actually be a foreign agent?"

"It is indeed possible, my dear Watson, but I think not probable. Had he been in that profession, Mycroft would almost certainly have run him down by now. Such people are always supported by a network of some kind, and Mycrofts' agents, such as the redoubtable Mr Adamant, are expert in penetrating such organisations.

"No, Watson, your piece of luck, coupled with your astute questioning, have revealed one key fact. Our quarry is an American. This explains a great deal. Our cousins across the ocean are developing a penchant for masked crusaders, and clearly our Mr Black fancies himself as being in the same mould as the outlaw El Zorro of California, or the so-called Lone Ranger of the Western wilds."

"Are you certain, Holmes?" I asked. "I have never heard of El Zorro, but the articles and stories I have read show this Lone Ranger as an honourable man who refuses to kill even the worst of villains. Mr Black, on the other hand, seems ruthless to the point of brutality!"

"My dear Watson, as a writer of similar tales yourself, you should see the flaw in your argument!" Holmes admonished. "You tend to paint me as a champion of justice, but we both know that my main concern is the intellectual puzzle presented by any case. I have no doubt that the tales that come down to us are glamourised in some manner. Much of the West of America remains an untamed and lawless place, and it is unlikely that a man unprepared to kill, even in self-defence, would achieve what this Lone Ranger is reputed to have done!"

When we arrived, we found Mrs Hudson awaiting us.

"There's a gentleman upstairs asked to see Dr Watson." She said. "I told him you were out, but he said it was a matter of importance and he would wait."

"A patient, Warson?" Holmes asked.

"It is very unlikely." I replied. "I have very few, these days, and they all know a message or telegram will bring me to them."

The man awaiting us upstairs was perhaps in his forties. Rather under the medium height and plump, soberly dressed and exuding an air of geniality at odds with a worried expression. He looked at me.

"Dr Watson?" He asked.

I confirmed this, and he went on. "So this gentleman will be Mr Sherlock Holmes. An honour to meet you both. My name is Pemberton. I was directed here by a mutual acquaintance of ours, Dr Watson. Madame Morgan."

"Do you wish me to withdraw?" Holmes asked.

"Indeed no!" Pemberton averred. "I mentioned the matter because it is the cause of my coming here. Madame told me that information I possess might be of importance to a case you are engaged upon."

"I see." Said Holmes. "Then pray be seated, Mr Pemberton, and tell us how a manager at a ships chandlers may be of assistance."

"You know where I work?" Pemberton asked.

"Not precisely." Holmes admitted. "But you have placed your overcoat tidily upon that chair, and the document protruding from the pocket is clearly a ships' supply order. Add to that the fact that you carry an air of authority, that your clothing is of good but not overly expensive quality, and the matter is clear. Beyond that I can tell only that you are a former military man – like Watson here, you carry your handkerchief in your sleeve."

"Well, you are clearly every bit the detective Dr Warson describes." Pemberton noted. "I am, as you say, a manager – Business Manager – at the firm of Cartwright and Company.

"I am also a client at Madame Morgans' establishment. I make no apology for that. My wife and I are devoted, and have three wonderful children. But the last pregnancy and confinement were difficult for my wife, and the doctor has told us that another child could well be the death of her. I therefore set myself to put aside that aspect of our marriage in order that we could both care for the children and each other. My wife, however, harboured concerns for my health, and consulted with a friend who has similar difficulties, where she learned of Madames' establishment and encouraged me to go there.

"Some three years ago now, a gentleman by the name of Walter Kovacs joined our company. He was rather old for a clerks job, but was clearly very skilled and was marked for promotion. He is not a communicative man, but I did gather that he was a bachelor. Knowing the weakness of men, and the dangers of the celibate state, I provided him with Madames' card, but I never knew whether he had availed himself of the opportunity.

"This afternoon, my day off, I made my monthly call to Madame Morgan, and in the course of our conversation, she asked me if I had ever chanced to recommend her establishment to anyone. I mentioned Mr Kovacs. She asked me to describe him, and after I had done so, she became quite agitated and urged me in the strongest terms to come and see you, Mr Holmes, giving Dr Watsons' name as a point of introduction."

"Excellent!" Holmes said. "A clear and succinct statement. Now, Mr Pemberton, can you describe this Mr Kovacs to us? Not merely his physical appearance, but also any mannerisms or traits of character that mark him out?"

Pemberton frowned. "He is a man of medium height and spare build. A thin face, clean shaven with red hair cut short. I recall upon one occasion there was an accident in the street outside and we went out, of course, to see if we could help. Some poor boy had his arm trapped beneath a cart-wheel, and Mr Kovacs, unaided, lifted the loaded cart sufficiently for us to pull the boy out.

"For the rest, he is laconic, speaking in an odd, clipped way when he does speak. He is clearly a man of education, if not of breeding. He has a slight accent which I suspect to be American -we deal with several American ships and crews. He seems quite devout, and is a strict but fair and humane disciplinarian of the junior clerks and boys under him."

"Thank you." Holmes said. "One last thing -do you know Mt Kovacs' address?"

Pemberton gave us the address, and left shortly after, his natural geniality restored.

"One more for you, Watson!" Holmes remarked. "Your ability to obtain and retain the confidence of women is proving very useful today!

"Now, old fellow, I must ask you to go over to the Post office and telegraph Lestrade, asking him to meet us at Mr Kovacs' address. In the meantime, I will contact young Wiggins and see if my Baker Street Irregulars can find out more about this Mr Kovacs!"


	4. Chapter 4

**The Adventure of Mr White and Mr Black**

**Part Four**

The man known to Madame Morgan as Mr White and to Richard Jermyn as Mr Black sat at a rickety table in a small room and looked at his face as it lay on the table.

"Know why he sent me here, now." He told it. "Couldn't be exact. Quantum Mechanics. Heisenberg. Got me near. Good thing. Lot needed doing. Occupied my time. One last job now."

The transition from the Arctic waste to a city street had been painless, but disorienting. He had taken his face off to confront Manhattan at the last, which was lucky. Lucky also that it seemed to be late at night, or the early hours of the morning. He heard a clock chime five o'clock somewhere.

The streets were unfamiliar. Crooked, dirty and stinking of every kind of rot and filth. The buildings were low, mostly brick, and shabby. He was passed by a number of people on foot, who ignored him, and by various carts, all horse-drawn. The discovery of a discarded newspaper, _The Evening News_, dated November 8th, 1888, confirmed his suspicions. He had been sent far away in both time and space. Manhattan was not a killer – he was too cold for that.

Then a door opened in a nearby building and a man came out. A most unremarkable man, in a dark coat and hat. But the stench of blood, meat and faeces that flowed out of the door caught Rorschachs' attention. The man moved off briskly, leaving the door ajar. Rorschach went over and glanced into the room.

The scene of butchery there was beyond even his experience. It was clear that the victim had been a young woman, but the things that had been done to her beggared description!

Rorschach stepped back, shutting the door, not realising – or caring - that the spring lock would close with it. The killer was still in sight, and Rorschach went after him, swift and silent.

He knew what he had seen. The date on the newspaper was logged among the details of the many crimes stored in his unusual mind. The girl was Mary Jane Kelly, and the man he was pursuing must be, could only be, Jack the Ripper. Rorschach knew his history, knew the Ripper had never been caught or named. He couldn't let the scum escape, but he had to be careful.

His opportunity came when his quarry turned into a side-alley. The end was quick and brutal, it took only seconds to beat the man to death. Rorschach stripped the corpse to make it look like a mugging, and disappeared.

For six years, he had laid low. Working at menial jobs, learning the ways of the place he was now in, how to disappear, to not stand out. There were things he had to do, but he did them quietly, discreetly. But three years ago, the time was right. He finally felt able to put his real face on again, and to teach the scum the meaning of fear.

But now it was coming to an end. He'd seen the papers, months ago, knew what it meant, knew what was coming. Then there was Holmes. Rorschach knew that sooner or later Holmes would run him to ground, and he wanted it to be on his own terms. But everything else he had been doing built up to tonight. After that, everything would be different.

_From the diary of John H Watson, MD_

The address Pemberton gave us was of a respectable rooming house in a quiet street. The owners, an old soldier and his wife, had no complaints about their tenant. He was quiet, entering and leaving by his own door and taking his meals in his rooms, and he paid his rent fully in advance. They had not seen or heard him since the previous day, but that was not unusual. His breakfast that morning had been taken, and the dishes left in the customary place. The presence of Inspector Lestrade was sufficient to open the doors to us.

The apartment was small -bedroom, sitting room, bathroom -sparsely but decently furnished, apart from a large bookcase that was clearly newer than the rest. There was no decoration besides a single picture on the wall -a commonplace print that almost certainly belonged to the landlord. There were no ornaments of any kind.

"Not unusual for a bachelor." Lestrade remarked. "If he's not a sportsman, he wouldn't have any trophies, and if he isn't travelled, no souvenirs."

"True enough." Holmes allowed. "You are perusing his bookshelf, Watson, what do you find?"

"That it bears a certain resemblance to yours, Holmes!" I said. "We have a London Gazetteer, Bradshaws, Burkes' _Peerage_, _Who's Who_, Debretts', Whitaker's Almanack, and several editions of _Notes and Queries_. There are numerous works of literature, mostly modern, and a great deal of sensational literature! Also a complete collection of both mine and your various monographs!"

"Great minds, Watson, great minds!" Holmes commented. "Our quarry knows our methods, skills and limitations, and almost certainly respects them. I see copies of most of the daily papers on the table, the uppermost of which is the _Times_, left open at the agony columns.

"Let us examine further!"

It was clear that Kovacs was a man of cleanly and tidy habits. The bed was properly made, linen neatly folded in drawers and outer clothing hung in the wardrobe.

"What do you see, Holmes?" Lestrade asked in a tone between humour and respect. "What have Dr Watson and I missed?"

"It is not so much what I see, as what I do not see." Holmes said. "Mr Kovacs is a clean-shaven man, but his razor is missing from the bathroom. His hairbrushes are not upon his dressing table, either. This tells me that he does not intend to return here, and may indeed have another abode elsewhere.

"The wardrobe tells me more. Most men of this class possess only two suits; one for everyday wear, the other for Sundays or evening outings. This wardrobe contains both these suits, and a further, empty, hanger suggesting that there is a third suit, currently being worn. There are two coats, a winter greatcoat and a lighter overcoat, but again, a third hanger. Upon the shelf above are two hats, a bowler and a homburg, and a most suggestive gap. On the wardrobe floor we find two pairs of Oxfords, one in ordinary black leather, the other in patent. Here there is also a gap, in which I infer that another pair of shoes was kept. I would suggest working boots with a deep tread, since I also found many traces of mud and soil." He held up a small envelope of the kind he carried in his pockets. "In here is a sample of the most common traces found. I observe it to be London clay mixed with blood-soaked sawdust. If, as I suspect, the blood is animal, then it is likely that Mr Kovacs' redoubt is in the vicinity of Smithfield Market."

"Well, that gives me somewhere to start!" Lestrade said. "I'd better cut along back to the Yard and start the search. I'll send messages to Baker Street."

Holmes and I set off toward the main road in the hope of hailing a hansom, when a small coach suddenly pulled up beside us. The door opened and a middle-aged gentleman, soberly dressed and of a benign appearance, stepped out and spoke to us.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I have an invitation for you." He said.

"Parson Brandon?" Holmes said. "You are somewhat outside your manor, sir! I take it that Mr Jermyn wishes to speak with us?"

"Not only he, but several others in a similar line of business." Brandon said. "They wish to consult you upon a matter of importance to all of us. I am asked to assure you that no harm is meant to yourself and Dr Watson. You may retain your revolvers, and all we ask is your discretion in return for your safety and your opinions on a certain matter of mutual interest."

"I should have expected this." Holmes said. "Your people have been shadowing us throughout this case, and certain sources have been more forthcoming than is usual.

"Very well, we will accompany you, but rest assured that should I or Watson catch the slightest hint to treachery, you will be the first to fall, sir!"

The blinds of the coach were drawn down, in order, I assumed, to stop us seeing where we were going. A useless endeavour, since I knew that Holmes would be keeping a mental track of every twist and turn, as well as the sound of the wheels and hooves on the road. We eventually came to a halt and were let down from the coach in a street of what appeared to be warehouses. Brandon led us to the nearest, where he rapped on the door in a complex pattern. The door opened a crack and there was a brief, murmured exchange, presumably of passwords, before we were admitted.

The place was pitch dark, but the watchman, a veritable colossus with skin the colour of ebony and quick, intelligent eyes, produced a small lantern which Brandon used to guide us to the rear of the building.

Beyond another door was a large room. Well-lit, but furnished only with a large table and the chairs which seated as unusual a group as I had ever seen.

At the head of the table, facing us, was man of the most singular appearance. A face of two halves. Above the brow, the high forehead of a man of intellect. Below it, the coarse, almost simian features of a brute. As he rose to greet us, I saw that he was a short man, but with great breadth of shoulder.

"Mr Richard Jermyn." Holmes noted. "The successor to Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran."

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, my respected antagonist." Jermyn replied, his voice deep and coarse, but his speech that of a man of education. "You probably know my competitors here, but nevertheless, I will make introductions.

"Mr Li Shan, of the Blue Dragon." A portly, benign-looking Chinese in dark robes. "Signor Alberto Perezzi, of the Camorra. " Slender and wiry, with sleek dark hair, olive skin and cold eyes. "Mr Jacob Kellerman, of Golders Green." A thin, elderly man with hawk-like features, wearing a full beard and a skullcap. "And these are Mr Callaghan and Mr Janssen, who between them control the entire waterfront of this God-forsaken city!" Both big men, one red-haired and clean-shaven, the other blond and bearded.

Jermyn resumed his seat. "You are probably wondering why all of us, who are usually at each other's throats, are sitting here amicably, Mr Holmes? The truth is, we find ourselves in a somewhat unusual situation."

"We are upon ground of intersecting highways." Li Shan commented in musical tones.

"And on such ground, one makes alliances." Holmes replied.

"Just so." Li Shan bowed his head. "You have studied Sun Tzu, I note."

"Probably Machiavelli as well!" Perezzi added with a thin smile.

"Counsel with many on the things you ought to do, and confer with few on what you do afterwards." Said Holmes.

"Enough!" Jermyn said. "It's not good for us to keep you here long, or for you to stay here, Mr Holmes. We all have things to do, and at the moment, they all tend to the same end.

"You have been investigating the actions of the so-called Mr Black, have you not? A man who has done considerable damage to all of our businesses, not least by sowing fear and discord among our people.

"The purpose of this meeting is to form a plan by which we can all act together against Black, and to prevent open warfare between us. However, some of us persist in believing that he is an agent for one of us, specifically myself.

"I have therefore taken the dangerous but necessary step of inviting the one common enemy we all have -yourself, Mr Holmes – to settle the dispute. You cannot fail to be aware of the perils and difficulties open war between us all will entail. We are aware and respectful of your powers, so we assume that by now you know more of Black than any of us could glean. We also know you to be a man of honour and discretion, even if none of us are.

"All we ask is that you tell us what you can of this Black."

"I do not deny," Holmes said, "that I would have no regrets if you were all to put an end to each other. It would save myself and the hangman some work. But you are correct in saying that I am aware of the dangers posed by such a conflict.

"The so-called Mr Black, or Mr White, who styles himself 'Rorschach', is not, as far as I can ascertain, an agent of any criminal organisation, political faction or foreign government. Nor is he in the employ of the British government. He is of American origin, and I believe him to be what our cousins across the sea call a 'vigilante'. Someone who takes justice, or what they perceive as justice, into their own hands.

"This man regards the official police and government as ineffectual or corrupt. He seeks to expose corruption, and to destroy those who live by preying on others or pandering to their corruption. He appears to have a particular and deep-seated hatred of those who abuse women in any way. He is a man of great rectitude, in his own way, and possibly deeply religious, seeing himself as the hand of God.

"As an agent of the law, I do not feel compelled to reveal any salient facts regarding his true identity or current whereabouts, and since you did not ask me for that information, I assume you did not expect it."

"We did not." Jermyn said. "We have agents of our own, and are not concerned if you or the police reach him first, as long as he is taken. Thank you for clearing this matter up for us, Mr Holmes.

"Mr Brandon, escort our guests back to Baker Street, if you please!"

The walk back through the warehouse was uneventful, until Brandon, walking ahead, let out a sudden oath and broke into a run. Holmes and I followed, rather than lose the light. When we reached the outer door, it was slightly ajar, and the evening light, as well as the lantern, showed the body of the guard stretched on the floor, the head at a horrible angle.

"They're not armed!" Brandon cried. "Quick, for Gods' sake!"

But even as we ran, we could hear the clamour. Yells, curses and screams, a flurry of explosive popping sounds. Then a final, maniacal screech of rage that was cut short in a ghastly gurgle and choke. It was all over in mere moments, before we had covered more than two-thirds of the distance.

There was a moment of quiet, as we slowed our pace, sacrificing speed for caution. Then the door swung open. We had a brief impression of a dark figure against the light, then there was a muffled explosion and we were engulfed in clouds of billowing smoke. There was the sound of a blow and the sodden thud of a falling body. Something rushed by me, I attempted to seize it, but received a violent push in the chest which put me off-balance.

By the time the smoke had cleared, Holmes and I were alone. Between us lay the body of Brandon, doubled over. I examined him quickly.

"Dead." I confirmed. "A blow to the solar plexus, if I am any judge. Such blows are often painful, but only fatal if applied with great skill, strength or both."

"Our Mr Rorschach seems to possess both in plenty," remarked Holmes, "as well as a penchant for devices and tricks. We have used smoke rockets ourselves, Watson, we should perhaps have anticipated such a tactic.

"Come, let us see what has been done within!"

The place was a shambles. Li Shan and Kellerman were dead in their seats, while Callaghan and Janssen lay in postures which indicated that they had attempted to attack the intruder, but had failed to reach him. Perezzi, the Italian, lay half in and half out of a concealed doorway at the far end of the room. Richard Jermyn lay spread-eagled upon the table, his features frozen in a bestial snarl.

Closer examination showed that all the victims save Jermyn bore small wounds in the head or neck. It was clear that the envenomed darts such as the ones shown us by Moriarty were the cause of their deaths.

"Both the Chinese and the Jew have been shot in the same side of the neck." Holmes said. "Callaghan and Janssen shot in the eye and the forehead respectively, while Signor Perezzi has his death-wound in the back of the neck, just above the collar. Jermyn?"

"Not shot." Said I, palpating a great bruise on the throat of the dead villain. "The windpipe, larynx and Adams' apple have been crushed. Again by a single blow. I have seen this before, Holmes, when the fighting became close, the men would strike at the enemy's' throat with the butt of a rifle. Death was almost instantaneous."

"Hmm." Holmes examined the top of the table with his lens, then straightened. "Then the course of events, as near as I can make it, ran thus. Rorschach enters the building, disposing of the watchman, during our colloquy with these aristocrats of crime. He waits by the inner door , and once we are out of earshot, enters the room.

"During the brief interval of shock his arrival produces, he shoots Li Shan and Kellerman where they sit. By this time, Callaghan and Janssen are on their feet, making for him, and both are shot down. Perezzi elects to flee, but is caught before he can enter the passage. At that point Jermyn, overcome with rage, leaps onto the table with the intention of flinging himself on top of the assassin. Possibly because his weapon is exhausted, Rorschach also jumps onto the table, meets his foe half-way and finishes him with a single, lethal strike. There are Oriental disciplines of bare-hand fighting far more deadly than our British boxing, and it seems our quarry has mastered at least one of these.

"He then hears our approach, opens the door, fixes our positions in his mind and throws the smoke rocket. This explains why Brandon – as Jermyns' most likely successor - was killed, whilst you were merely pushed aside. He knew where we all were in relation to each other and, for whatever reason, wishes you and I no harm."

"Why not take the rear exit?" I asked.

"Firstly, it is unlikely that he would know where it leads." Holmes said. "Secondly, you will observe that Perezzis' corpse is wedged against the door in such a manner as to make it impossible to fully open. The time it would have taken to move the body would have brought us upon Rorschachs' rear and forced a direct confrontation he seems to wish to avoid. Not, I think, out of cowardice. He must have another compelling reason to avoid us.

"We can do nothing more here, Watson. We must inform the police, though it is likely that when they arrive this place will be empty of its dead. Then we return to Baker Street and await word of the search for Rorschach's bolt-hole."

We had been back for less than two hours when, with great reluctance, Mr Hudson admitted the gangly and disreputable figure of Wiggins into the room. Wiggins was the leader of the gang of street urchins -the 'Baker Street Irregulars' – that Holmes employed as spies and messengers. On this occasion the boy was carrying a Gladstone bag and seemed rather downcast.

"Come, Wiggins, why the long face?" Holmes asked. "If you did not find the place today, surely there is still tomorrow!"

"Oh, we found it all right, Mr 'Olmes." The boy replied. "But we was rumbled!

"Young Jimmy, 'e was sent ter get me by Arfur, as 'ad found it, so's we could be sure of the place an' then I could report to you. I went, an' I telled Arfur ter keep an eye on it, like, then I was comin' away ter report when this bloke stopped me…"

"What was he like?" Holmes interrupted. Wiggins paused for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts, then said. "'Bout as tall as Dr Watson, but skinnier. 'E was wearin' a dark ulster an' a soft titfer. Thin sorter face on 'im – mouth like a cut, no whiskers.

"'E says to me, "Give this to Holmes!" an' 'ands me this bag. Spoke funny, 'e did. Then 'e were gone!

"Sorry to 'ave let yer down Mr 'Olmes."

"On the contrary, Wiggins, you have done all I asked you to do!" Holmes cried. "It is no fault of yours, but rather mine for setting you upon a quarry whose cunning equals mine! Here, take this, and a little extra for your trouble!"

Wiggins left, looking much relieved, and Holmes and I addressed ourselves to the bag.

"Old, well-used, pawnbrokers' ticket still on it." Holmes said. "Bought moments before it was put to use, no doubt. Let us see what is within!"

A heavy object, carefully wrapped in oiled cloth, proved to be the exact mate of the peculiar weapon – the compressed air dart pistol – shown us by Moriarty. A leather pouch yielded the air cylinders, a box of darts and the small pumping apparatus. Finally, an envelope, addressed in the same clear hand we had seen at Beaumonts' apartments, to Sherlock Holmes. Holmes opened it and read:

_Knew you'd find me. Need to talk. Horsell Common, 2:20 AM. Go towards sandpits. Will find you._

_R_

"Surrender or ambush?" I asked.

"Neither, I think." Holmes said. "People setting meetings of that kind are prone to favour the hour or the half -something that can be confirmed by the nearest church or town hall clock. The exactitude of the hour suggests another event, one over which our quarry has no control but wishes us to witness or take part in. A natural phenomenon of some kind? Or the time and place of a past event which has a profound meaning for him?"

"And why send the weapon?" I wondered.

"An earnest of good faith perhaps." Holmes replied. "Or maybe an acknowledgement that he will no longer need it, and wishes it safely bestowed.

"It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has the necessary facts, Watson, so be a good fellow and look up the next train to Horsell, will you?"

We had arrived in Horsell in plenty of time to take a room at a local inn, where we had been provided with a simple but excellent dinner. We had brought Holmes' telescope along with us and informed the landlord that we were amateur astronomers who wished to go out onto the Common to make some observations. This tale, accompanied by a half-sovereign, was sufficient to induce that worthy to lend us a key to the back door, so that we could come and go as we pleased. We retired to our room at about ten o'clock, and at my urging, took a few hours' sleep.

We were an hour before our time as we stepped onto the Common. This, as the entire world now knows, is a large area of open land lying between Horsell, Ottershaw and Woking. We knew roughly where the sandpits lay and approached them at a gentle pace, taking note of the lie of the land, in case this was an ambush, and we were forced to flee or hide.

This being a summer's night in England, the darkness was far from complete, and here, beyond the smoke of the factories and furnaces of London proper, a clear sky and full moon left it little short of daylight. Nevertheless, we saw nothing an no-one, until the very hour stipulated, when suddenly the man we sought appeared in our path.

He was as we had heard him described, of the middle height, gaunt in build, wearing a slouch hat and a dark ulster. There was no mask, however, just a thin face, with a resolute jaw, broad forehead, grim mouth and cold, unblinking eyes. Eyes that sent a shiver through me. The eyes of a madman, though his speech, when he spoke, was rational.

"Thanks for coming." He said.

"I presume I am speaking to Mr Walter Kovacs, also known as Mr Black, Mr White, or Rorschach?" Holmes asked.

"Rorschach will do." Was the reply. "Not important now."

"Is it not?" Holmes said. "Surely the name under which you will stand trial, and likely hang, for murder, is a matter of some moment?"

"Won't happen." Rorschach responded with conviction. "Not now. Besides, execution, not murder. Only murder if they don't deserve it."

"Without trial, they were still innocent in the eyes of the law." Holmes answered.

"Law's an ass." Rorschach replied.

"So Mr Dickens tells us." Holmes pointed out. "But as civilised men we have a duty to uphold it nonetheless."

Rorschach shook his head. "Not Dickens. George Chapman, _Revenge for Honour_, 1654. Dickens borrowed. Nothing wrong with that. Shakespeare borrowed things too.

"You don't always act for the law, either. You've hidden things, let people go. Even killers, when it was better."

"You are right." Holmes admitted. "But you doubtless know the circumstances warranted my actions. But you did not summon us here to talk of such things, I assume?"

"No." Rorschach agreed. "Brought you here to see. There!"

He pointed away, above our heads. We turned and looked up to see something, a bright, glowing object, pass overhead, leaving a faint green trail and making a loud hissing sound. It vanished behind the slight rise on which Rorschach stood, and seconds later there was a muffled boom and the earth shook slightly.

Rorshach gestured urgently to us and we followed him in the direction the object had gone. As we went, he continued to speak.

"Sent here eight, nine, years ago. Didn't know why at first. But a lot to do. Scum needed cleaning. System couldn't cope. Stayed underground, did things quietly. Cops didn't know. Crooks didn't know. Then remembered what would happen. Knew they couldn't be organised when it did. Looting, terror, making things worse. So put my face back on. Got noisy, messy. Knew sooner or later they'd meet up to work things out. Cut all the heads off at once. Don't leave them time to regrow.

"Here!"

We had covered about two miles. Within half a mile we had begun to see heaps of sand, soil and gravel. These had become larger and more frequent until they formed a low wall before us. With some difficulty, we made our way to the crest of this, then stopped. Before us lay a vast crater of sand, earth and gravel. Somewhere off to one side, the heather was alight, but we barely noticed it, such was our astonishment at what lay in the centre.

There, amid the ruins of a shattered tree, something had driven itself into the ground. The part we could see looked like the end of a great cylinder, some thirty yards in diameter, glowing a dull orange and giving off a heat we could feel from where we stood.

"A meteorite?" I wondered aloud.

"No." Holmes said. "The friction of passing through the atmosphere renders meteorites quite generally round.

"That is a perfect cylinder, a shape rarely if ever found in Nature, except for certain plants. Is it artificial?"

The question seemed addressed to Rorschach, and it was indeed he who replied.

"Yes. A vehicle, landing craft. They're inside, waiting for it to cool. Then they'll come out. Tomorrow, maybe the next day."

"And then?" Holmes asked.

"War. Death. Havoc. They come to kill, to capture, to feed." Was the reply.

"You have seen such things before?" I asked.

"Not seen. Heard about. Read about. Know what they can do. Know how they can be beaten. Need to get it to right people." Rorschach tuned to Holmes. "That was why Beaumont. One of Moriartys'. Knew they'd call you in. Knew Moriarty would reach out. Needed to get you interested,. Get you here. Lives to be saved, if we can. Need to talk to your brother, quick!"

_Postscript_

The events of the days, weeks and months following that fateful night have been well and extensively chronicled elsewhere, and I shall not reiterate them.

However, there were other matters that, even now, remain secret, but which I may speak of in general terms. Holmes, Kovacs and I returned to London by the earliest train, and sought an immediate appointment with Mycroft. Neither Holmes nor I were sure we could convince his brother of the danger we stood in. But when Kovacs mentioned the Torchwood Institute – a secretive scientific body established by Her Majesty some years before – Mycroft was instantly interested.

What followed involved all of us for the entire duration of what has been called 'The War of the Worlds'. The careful planning to make sure the evacuation of Southern England and London took place without the terrible riots and looting such action would normally have resulted in. The withdrawal of most of our forces to the Midlands – the heart of our industries -and the hastily-built fortifications designed, not to defeat, but to delay, the Martian advance. The missions to assure that aid would be on its' way as soon as the threat was over. All of this made possible by Kovacs' revelation that the Martians were vulnerable to, and would soon die from, the microbes and bacteria of Earth. Microbes that, for all their mechanical prowess, they could not defend against.

We never learned where Walter Kovacs came from, or the source of his extraordinary knowledge, and after the Martians were dead, he disappeared. Not even the agents of Torchwood were able to find him. But during the last years of his career – he retired in 1904 – Holmes claimed to see what he called the 'hand of Rorschach' in certain 'accidents' to, and unexplained disappearances of, individuals of unsavoury reputation but unproven criminality.

As the world knows, despite, or perhaps because of, the Martian invasion, in 1914, Europe plunged into the madness of the Great War, and after that, there were no more incidents of 'the hand of Rorschach'. It is my belief that Kovacs, like so many others, perished in those terrible years. Holmes has his doubts, and for some reason connects Kovacs final vanishment with the mythical 'Blue Man' occasionally told of by soldiers who claim that he, along with a masked companion, saved them from certain death in the trenches. But my Army friends, among them Major Hugh Drummond, remain convinced that the Blue Man and his ally were mere figments, 'tall tales' or whispered rumours similar to the 'Angels of Mons', the mysterious flying ace the 'Dark Eagle' or the persistent idea that the Germans attacked lone Allied fliers with giant bats.

Whatever the truth of the matter is, the case remains one of the most unusual we ever pursued, and one which we never truly concluded. This account will be sealed with some other cases in my old tin dispatch box, and given into the care of my solicitors. Whether or not it shall ever be made public, I leave to the discretion of my heirs.

John H Watson MD


End file.
